Shooting in the Wrong Direction.

The Oslo Follies.

Credit: Grok AI

The road to Gush Katif once ran straight through Gaza City. By the time we moved to Gan Or, a bypass road skirted Gaza to the east, making the drive from Ashkelon to Gan Or about forty minutes. As security worsened, the route changed. Jews heading to Gush Katif had to turn left at Yad Mordechai, right at Sderot, then south to Kibbutz Kissufim. For a year, we drove through Kissufim’s fields, passing the agricultural area of the rebuilt Kfar Darom, a settlement reborn after its pre-1948 origins. Later, a new main road to Gush Katif eliminated the need for agricultural access roads, though it remained a significant detour. This road shared a half mile stretch with Gazan Arabs at the Gaza City-Rafah Road. This stretch ended at the Gush Katif intersection, marked by a white-painted building, known as the White House. Early on, someone tried to set up a rest stop there, selling popsicles, cold drinks, and beer. But as security deteriorated, the army took over, establishing an observation post on the roof.

I welcomed the army’s presence. The drive to and from Gush Katif, especially along that shared highway, could be harrowing. From the observation post, soldiers could monitor the entire shared section. Still, heavy Arab traffic heightened the danger, and avoiding those times wasn’t always possible.

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My daughter Naama and I felt cheated. We’d expected a thrilling Spielberg sequel, but Jurassic Park 3—not directed by him—was a letdown. A trip to the movies was no small feat for us, requiring travel along that perilous road. Naama, our eldest, had just completed her national service. She shared my love for American culture and a good action movie. That late afternoon, after a disappointing matinee, we drove back toward Gush Katif. Jewish traffic—those returning from work outside the Gush—was usually heavy then, but as we reached the Gaza Strip entrance, we were oddly alone. I waited fifteen minutes for another vehicle to join us, but none appeared.

Reluctantly, I drove on. The road was empty until we neared the White House intersection. Prefabricated concrete slabs lined the left side, spaced apart earlier to account for a vehicle’s speed, theoretically creating a protective barrier against gunfire. Closer to the intersection, the slabs formed a solid wall. Those slabs carried a heavy memory: eight months earlier, Itamar Yefet, a young man Naama’s age from Netzer Hazzani, was killed there. Itamar and his girlfriend had been Naama’s childhood friends. For me, Itamar stood out as a natural athlete during my years coaching Gan Or’s youth basketball team. Netzer Hazzani was a powerhouse, often facing Neve Dekelim in the championship. Itamar’s calm confidence, his knack for tough rebounds and gentle assists, made him unforgettable. His death hit hard—fathers like me could easily imagine our own children in his place.

As I approached the White House, danger appeared. Two terrorists in full combat gear emerged from an orchard near the closest houses, heading for a gap in the concrete wall. I sped forward, glancing at the observation post. To my shock, it was unmanned. I leaned on the horn as we reached the slabs, and the terrorists opened fire. Bullets struck the spaced slabs, chipping concrete that flew toward us. I hugged the car against the solid wall section, waiting for the soldiers to respond from the now-active rooftop post. The gunfire grew closer, and to my horror, the soldiers aimed their machine gun at us. I leaned forward, hoping my yarmulke would signal we were not the threat. It didn’t. I waved frantically, pointing toward the terrorists, who were closing in but not running. They couldn’t know I’d stopped, but they’d soon reach the gap and find us.

With no response from the soldiers, I floored the Renault Megane toward the intersection. The soldiers, mistaking us for the threat, prepared to fire. I screeched around the corner, accelerating to escape. Bullets hit the asphalt ahead, looking like hail in the summer heat—a surreal thought under stress. As we neared the Gefen checkpoint, the last checkpoint until Gush Katif, I eased off the gas, fearing they’d see us as a threat too. An officer stood in the road, hands raised to stop us, his weapon slung across his waist. Breathless, I said, “Terrorists.”

He smiled. “They thought you were terrorists at first. Are you both okay?”

Naama and I exchanged disbelieving glances. She whispered, “Aba, they don’t know what’s happening.” She was right. The Gefen soldiers were relaxed, unaware of the danger. I tried again: “Sir, two armed terrorists are near the White House, behind the concrete slabs.”

He gave me a skeptical look, as if I were an overanxious civilian. Then, Kalashnikov bursts rang out—measured, professional, likely from terrorists trained by US or UK special forces in Jordan, with Israel’s approval. The officer’s expression shifted. He had no time to reflect—his men at the White House, caught off guard, were now under fire. They’d been asleep on duty, woken by the terrorists’ shots at us, and in their confusion, they’d fired at us. The “hail” was their bullets. They radioed Gefen to check on us but failed to mention the real threat. The terrorists, meanwhile, were testing our forces’ alertness, using Naama and me as an opportunity for “Jew-kills.” They retreated methodically into the orchard, firing at the White House to taunt our troops.

Their mission was reconnaissance, and they succeeded. Our forces’ failure to learn from this incident would later prove costly, as deadly attacks from the same direction followed. Naama and I were in shock. At home we found a small hole in the back windshield and followed the path through the back seat. The bullet was sitting on the floor, twisted out of shape, but still recognizable as a bullet from an M-16, used by our forces.